Final gift for lazy_daze.
This post is split into two parts to accommodate its length, so remember to click the link at the end of the first half! :D
Title: Dirty Up Your Conscience
Author: Gin (backinblack)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Sam (plus Sam/OFC, Dean/OFC, and Dean/Sam/OFC).
Summary: Demons lie, except for when they tell the truth.
Notes: Written for lazy_daze for the spn_holidays challenge. She asked for: 4 - Wincest; Dean REALLY getting turned on by thinking about Sam having sex with girls; featuring detailed jerk-off sessions while fantasising and/or voyeurism (so het is obviously okay), and preferably leading to actual Wincest. Pluses include top!Sam, hints of dom!Sam. Hope I fulfilled at least part of what you were looking for. You had some fab prompts, and I waffled forever trying to choose one! Thanks to back_in_black for the mid-fic advice and nitpicking, to cormallen for the fab mid-fic beta, and finally thanks to unjealous for infecting me with her genius and pretty much co-writing sections of the fic.
--
Dean wasn't actually drunk, he just had a couple shots of Jim Beam at the bar, but when Sam showed up all pissy, bitching about being left alone on laundry duty, Dean didn't want to hear it. Sam knew better than to lecture when Dean was drunk; it only made him laugh or get belligerent, and apparently Sam found both reactions too obnoxious to deal with. Slurring a little and laughing at everything was a small price to pay to fend off Sam's put-upon speeches.
He grabbed Sam's sleeve and tried to pull him down into the bar stool next to him, but Sam shook him off. "Come on, Dean, we need to get up early."
Dean gestured to the girl sitting to his left, her long legs crossed under the bar counter. "I'm in the middle of a conversation, Sam."
Sam laughed, not really amused, and shifted his weight. The girl, Marie, was giving Sam the eye, and as usual Sam made every effort not to acknowledge her. "Yeah, right, I'm sure it's been scintillating--" asshole! "--but I think it's time to go home." Go home, go to a motel. Go home to mismatched socks and damp denim jeans that smelled like sulfur no matter how many times you washed them, all folded and lined up on Dean's bed, compliments of Sam's anal retentiveness.
Dean switched on a blinding grin and swiveled in his seat, turning to face Marie, who smiled and sipped on her fourth martini. Her hair fell in a riot of blonde waves over her shoulders and she had a freckle or a beauty mark above her lip. She looked kinda like Jessica, or Dean's admittedly faded and brief memory of her. "Do you wanna come home with us tonight?"
He didn't mean it, didn't believe in it any more than he believed in his own level of drunkenness. He said it to piss Sam off and it worked. He heard Sam's surprised hitch of breath behind him, and a muffled "Jesus Christ." Marie gave Sam the eye again, and Dean could about picture Sam's awkward, embarrassed smile.
Marie looked like she was considering it, maybe about to say yes, and that shit usually never worked, but he guessed there was a first time for anything. She opened her pretty, lipstick-red mouth to answer, but Sam cut in.
"Sorry about my brother, he gets real friendly when he's." Sam stuttered over a nice way to say shitfaced. "Drunk."
Sam hauled him up off the stool by the back of his coat, like some mother cat with her kitten, and Dean swallowed irritation to stumble and stagger his way under the curve of Sam's arm around his shoulders. Fuck him. Cockblocking bastard.
Leaning most of his weight up against Sam, he made sure to give everyone in the bar a lengthy goodbye at the doors. Once Sam managed to drag him out, he tripped a few times in the parking lot for good measure. Sam dumped him into the passenger seat and fastened the seatbelt around him, as Dean stared up at the ceiling, letting his head loll against the seat, fighting back a smirk.
"What a pain in the ass you are," Dean mumbled, really playing it up. "Always bitching and sulking. Since you were nine, a pain in my ass."
"Pain in my ass since I was born," Sam retorted, weary, like he didn't think Dean could hear him. It was that quiet little aside, the fact that Sam believed it, that ticked him off. He spent the rest of the ride back to the Motel 6 silently listing all the reasons Sam was an ass.
--
Dean was stretched out on the bed, listening to the clanging pipes and hiss of the shower running. He was tired, a little, and still irked at Sam to the point of listlessness, but his boots were laced too tight and he hated sleeping in jeans. At least Sam'd wrestled the coat off of him before he wandered off to shower. Dean sat himself up long enough to untie the laces and kick the boots off, landing with two soft clunks onto the floor, and wriggled out of his jeans. He hit the pillow with an oof and dragged the comforter up over his legs.
It was only like 10, or maybe 11, too early by far. Sam dragged him out of the bar for no real reason. He was tired enough for the hour, but he knew he couldn't sleep. You would think Sam would cherish the time they had to themselves, but no; if Dean went to shoot pool or get laid, Sam got snitty and hunted him down, chewed him out. And tonight, that blonde, Marie, she had been pretty for a barfly, and Dean had a real chance. Ten more minutes alone with her, and he would have been back at her place. Hell, maybe even in the bathroom, the brand new condoms in his wallet put to good use. Shit, though, she looked like she would have gone for Sam, and she was Sam's type, all that hair and how tall she was.
He had a thought that maybe Sam didn't want to go for his type, not after Jessica. Maybe it was over for him and leggy blondes. If so, what a sad state, a huge demographic of potential pussy he was counting out. Not that Sam ever had anything but potential pussy these days. Some chick could throw herself onto his cock and he'd politely excuse himself.
Dean glanced at the clock, gauging how much longer Sam would be in the shower. There was a press of urgency -- a niggling need to get off -- curling in his stomach, tensing the muscles there and making his breath come heavier. What'd it been, a day? Two? No, that morning, during his last shower, where he usually did it because it was safer. What Sam was probably doing right now. Dean's fingers slipped under the waistband of his shorts, lamenting the state of Sam's carpal tunnel from all that jerking off he must be doing.
He thought about Marie, about her legs around his hips, about what she'd let him do to her. One knuckle sliding over her clit to get her wet, inching her hips forward, noises in the back of her throat, the way he liked them. She looked like a boring fuck, now that he thought about it. Didn't say much, didn't flirt much, just slid closer to him and smiled and licked her lips. Her lips. His fingers twisted on an upstroke, playing with the slit, picturing her lips sucking tiny kisses against the tip there, then sliding down. Her lipstick'd smear off on it and her lips wouldn't be as red, shiny from her spit, pearly wet with his precome. Fuck, that was good. His hips arched off the bed and he sped up, still turned to face the clock, eyes unseeing of the blurry neon numbers on its face.
She would have said yes. She looked like she was going to back at the bar, and Dean knew under her mannequin exterior there was a little spice waiting to come out. She would have sat shotgun while Sam waited, nervous and pissed off and horny, in the back. Never mind that Sam thought he was drunk and wouldn't let him drive the Impala, it still would have worked out this way. He wouldn't have turned the radio on so he could hear her carefully controlled breathing, sitting there wet already, thinking about Dean's tongue on her clit and if Sam's dick matched the rest of him.
Sam, Sam would try and disappear, hem and haw the whole way, probably stuttering excuses while she took off her shirt and then stood there in her skirt and her bra two sizes too small, tits pushed up, spilling out. Dean'd slide behind her and nudge her up on the bed, hands working at the clasp, cupping her tits, whispering shit in her ear. Saying, "how you wanna do this? You want us both at once?" And she'd make a noise, not quite a moan, and just lean into him, nod.
And then Sam would give in. Somewhere around there. Maybe when Dean started fingering her and Sam could see how wet she was, pink and shaved and tight around his finger. Sam would take off his shirt with awkward, stiff fingers and she'd get even wetter, clenching around him, because she wanted Sam so bad, wanted to see if the rest of him looked as good.
Sam would eat her out, his tongue pointed and lapping, his hair pushed out of his eyes so he could see what he was doing. She'd be flat on the bed by then, legs spread and skirt off, or maybe almost off, dangling on an ankle. The room would be filled with the sounds of her breathing and soft gasps, the wet sounds of Sam, getting sloppier as it went on. She'd be two seconds from coming, getting into it, not nearly as quiet, maybe pushing at his head with fitful hands, tugging his hair. He'd move away from between her thighs, wipe off his mouth, look for his jeans and fumble for the condom. His cock all red, so fucking hard, sticky, condom -- extra large, she was right, it matched the rest of him -- going on. He'd angle her hips and push in, and then she'd groan, probably hadn't taken a dick like that in a while, or ever. "Fuck," she'd whine, Sam pumping his hips, balls right up against her ass, and Dean shot all over himself.
He took a few moments to breathe, blinking, his hands resting uselessly against his chest. His come was cooling quickly, but he didn't have the energy to get up. He didn't have the quickest recovery time with orgasms.
"It smells like spunk in here."
Dean started, or more like his thoughts screeched to a halt in surprise, but his body was still too overloaded to actually react.
Sam tossed his wet towel onto the floor. He was already dressed in his boxers and t-shirt, shoulders still damp and causing the material to stick. His expression was all pinched and it was vaguely amusing, or would have been if Dean's heart wasn't pounding. Sam sat down on the bed, tucking one leg under him, and reached for the remote. He channel-surfed for a moment before stopping on some World's Most Extreme Car Chases or whatever. "Dude, I know you're not that drunk, you don't fool me."
Dean just lay there for a moment, painfully aware of his sticky shorts. "I need to piss." He rolled out of bed, feeling Sam's eyes on his back until he closed the bathroom door behind him.
--
Starbucks wasn't Dean's choice for pickup spots, but he had to admit it hadn't been all that bad. In cities like Chicago, Sacramento or Denver, a lot of the customers were barely-legal yuppie chicks who took one look at his jacket and irritated expression and, not incorrectly, thought bad boy. Most yuppie chicks were prudes, leering at him like he was the whipped cream on their Venti froufy caramel whatevers, but if he went up with any intent to one of them, they clammed up, got bitchy, even. But a few of them were into it, almost easy, writing their numbers on stray napkins and inviting him out for drinks later. All things considered, it wasn't too hard to score at a Starbucks.
Today, though, the barista, who was pretty hot and had a tongue ring, stared at him blankly. He smiled and gave her a big tip, encouragement, and she gave him a look that read like he'd asked her how much for an hour, sweetheart? He watched her make Sam's latte and his black with mild suspicion, but she was too visible to be able to spit in it. She slammed the order down on the counter without a word and Dean took it, scowling, back to the table.
Sam was dicking around with the place's wireless, in it for the long haul for some substantiated local lore on a headless horseman, no lie. He thanked Dean absently for his coffee, went on staring at the screen and didn't offer any news on what he'd found. Dean shook out the newspaper and hunted for a pen, starting what was probably the millionth Sudoku puzzle he'd done over the last few years. He was fitting in a nine and double checking against the row beneath it when Sam spoke.
"Eugh, Dean, I told you I wanted a vanilla latte, how is that difficult to remember?"
"Don't blame me, man, that chick was on the rag or something."
"I never can figure out why you piss people off who handle your food." He shut his laptop and stood up with an irritated sigh.
Dean went back to his Sudoku and absently kept an ear on Sam, his 'excuse me Miss'es and downright creepy way of manipulating people into doing what he wanted. Dean never had gotten that down; it probably had something to do with Sam's stupid hair. The barista was all apologies and he heard her laugh at something Sam said. A few minutes later, Sam came back, holding his brand new vanilla latte and a lone napkin, looking perplexed.
"I don't get it. I tip her, she fucks up our order. You complain, and she gives you her number."
"I was being polite, Dean." He stared at the napkin for a minute but his monklike nature reasserted itself and he went back to the laptop.
Dean took a sip of his coffee, considering. "You see her tongue ring?" Sam didn't answer, hardly bothered to flick an unimpressed glance over the top of the screen. "Always thought those things were overrated, but there was this chick in Georgia." Sam squinted and slid further down in his chair, his patented 'I'm-not-listening' bullshit. "Man, that was intense." Sam went peck-peck-peck, undeterred, and Dean stifled the urge to laugh. "She worked me like a pro, spent like ten minutes just flicking her tongue over my--"
"Dean!" Sam's hands flew up in mock surrender. "In what universe do you think I want to hear about this?"
Dean chuckled over the rim of his cup. "You should try it, all I'm saying."
"Yeah, thanks for the advice," Sam said, sarcastic ass.
He was about done with his coffee, and Sam looked like he was onto something, when the barista came by. She was holding a small card between her manicured fingers. Dean gave her a weak smile, but she turned her back on him and leaned over -- leaned over, one arm braced on the cafe table, probably giving Sam a great view -- and spoke directly to Sam. "Sir, I just wanted to apologize again for your order," she said.
Sam huffed an anxious laugh, squirming in his seat. "Oh, oh, it's no big deal."
"I wanted to give you this for your trouble, and thank you again for being so understanding." She handed the card to Sam, who looked down at it intently. "It's a voucher for a free coffee, just, you know. Hopefully we'll get that order right," and she gave this tinkling laugh that she'd probably spent some time rehearsing in the past.
By the time she walked away, Dean was staring at Sam in abject fascination. Sam noticed. "What?"
"You're so smooth, bro, I'm impressed."
"Shut up."
"No, really, it was total James Bond." Sam flipped him off, and Dean cracked up. Sam shook his head and started typing again. God knew how he landed chicks like that. Maybe they went for the geeky, potentially a virgin vibe. No accounting for taste. She was practically giving him a lapdance and he sat there like she was trying to sell him life insurance.
If it'd been Dean -- and let's not forget it had been Dean, many times over, but for whatever reason this girl disliked him on sight -- he would have flirted back to the point of indecency, then slunk off to the restroom and waited for her. She would have been there, practically gagging for it, going straight to her knees in her work pants and unbuttoning his jeans with a smile. And that tongue ring, glinting, working over his cock, flicking the head until he was grunting and driving his hips up.
God, what if Sam got up to use the john and she took it as a signal? Maybe she'd corner him actually about to take a fucking leak, him stuttering and freaking out, her not giving a damn, dropping to her knees. She'd just want him to fuck her mouth, and he'd get into it the more he saw her taking it, slamming it so deep he'd choke her. She'd pull off to breathe and go right back, Sam clenching his teeth and telling her to just take it, that's right, just choke on his dick, his pants not even all of the way down so the zipper's teeth scraped at her face. She'd stop when he got close and tell him he could shoot on her face, and Sam would lose it, probably get it in her hair. Shit, Sam didn't know what he was missing.
"You awake?" Dean blinked and Sam studied him expectantly.
"What?"
"You were off in your own little world there."
"Just thinkin' about that tongue ring," he said, all smart ass, and Sam rolled his eyes. "Ready to go?"
"Yeah, I think I found everything I'm going to, and I want to get out of here before she offers me a complimentary pastry."
--
Their waitress was forty if she was a day, but she was a good forty, and Dean didn't say no to the free sodas and round of fries. He wouldn't say no to the number she might scribble onto the bill, either. Sam was so used to Dean's usual treatment by diner staff that he didn't even look up from his notes, scribbling away on ritual animal sacrifice while Dean tried to distract him by throwing fries.
Sam went to go to the bathroom, and Dean was halfway into a pretty fantastic burger so he hardly registered Sam getting up, but then the cloying smell of Ruby's perfume hit him in the face. She wasn't even near him yet, but he could smell the sick bitch. He set his burger down and covertly felt for his gun underneath the table; by the time she slid into the booth, in Sam's place, he'd lost his appetite and gained one hell of a bad attitude.
"Hey, Dean-o." As if his teeth weren't already set on edge. She poked Sam's food around his plate -- and the idea of her touching anything that went near Sam, her sulfur and evil and floral perfume poisoning him, as irrational as he knew it was -- it made him want to grab her by the hair and slam her face into the chipped table.
"How stupid can you be, showing up here," he growled.
"Relax, I'm just here to see Sam. No need to take it personally."
"Oh, it's definitely personal," he said, while she busied herself with picking the ketchup-sodden lettuce off of Sam's burger.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Sam's voice boomed pretty impressively over their heads. Dean glanced up and Sam, for once not slouching, looked like one seriously pissed off giant. He got in the booth next to Ruby when he realized his Conan the Barbarian impression wasn't going to fly in the middle of a diner.
Ruby gestured at Dean. "I'm having a heart-to-heart with your brother. I'm starting to see why you care about him so very much."
"You've got some kinda nerve," Dean started, but Sam shot him a look that very clearly read 'let me handle this.' Because Sam had so much control over Ruby.
"Look at you two," she simpered, "it's almost like watching an old married couple."
Sam's eyes narrowed and he looked momentarily furious, like he was going to backhand her, but then his face melted into cool and collected. She turned her sunny smile back at him, knowing, some sort of blonde Cheshire cat. And yeah, it made him queasy, but Dean could totally see that turning into something else a little more meaningful, her hair splayed forward, all over her arms, as Sam fucked her doggy style. Maybe fucking a way to save Dean out of her. He had a hot flash of Sam's come dripping out of her and his stomach clenched.
"Dude," Ruby said, looking at him with a mix of amusement and what must have been feigned disgust. She seemed impressed.
"What?" he shot back, but he didn't have to think about it much. Demon, tendency to fuck with people's heads, and for those personal touches they had to get the information from somewhere. She smiled wider, confirming his suspicions, and her eyes twinkled with it, fanned by long lashes, and it could be any other thing she could be laughing at, her boyfriend or some dumb joke. Dean had a moment of shame when he remembered that this was some poor girl's body he was picturing, someone's daughter, a kid.
"What?" Sam said, looking between the two of them.
"So do you think of all the girls that way or am I just special?" She leaned toward him, taking on a sultry little tone that the tiny, probably teenaged body didn't quite carry off. Goddamn demon bitch.
"Shut up," he started in, heated, his fingers gripping the butt of his gun under the table, knowing he wasn't stupid enough to shoot her in the middle of the frigging diner, but also knowing she was probably going somewhere he really didn't like.
She laughed and idly picked at a French fry on his plate, twirling it between her manicured fingers. "I'm really going to draw this one out, you know," she informed him, biting the tip of the fry with particular relish.
"What the hell is going on?" Sam butted in again, in his usual way getting all hot and bothered because they weren't letting him in on whatever it was he thought he was being left out of.
Dean didn't answer, just started to slide from the booth, tempted to drag Sam along, away from Ruby, but Sam would never come without a fight or an explanation. He couldn't deal with either. Sam tried to grab him but he was already halfway to the door when Ruby called out to him, "You're making my week with this one, Dean-o. I'm going to masturbate to Sam's face after I tell him."
Everyone in the diner was looking at them, the low buzz of chatter and forks against cheap plates silenced. Dean turned around, Sam tense and ready to explode in the booth, but Ruby likely wouldn't let him leave, would drag him back with her deceptively small frame. Her teeth gleamed white even from Dean's place at the door.
He saw himself, in some alternate turn of events, pulling a gun on her, aiming smack at the middle of her forehead, a kill shot on any normal human or even creature, if he'd had the right ammo. Regular bullets in his gun, which wouldn't do anything except give her a pretty impressive hole that she'd have a time explaining, and put some more shit on his rap sheet. Like he cared. He wanted the satisfaction of shooting her in the fucking head. Watching her jerk as it slammed in. His hand actually reached for it he was so furious, and he had to stop himself from making what would be a catastrophic mistake.
"Sammy," she said, slow and casual, preening under the attention of their horror and all the unfortunate souls who just wanted some coffee and lunch and got a whole lot more, "your brother wants to fuck you in the ass."
"What the hell?" Dean blurted, so shocked it came out without thought.
Ruby cackled. "Yeah, I was right, his face is pretty much priceless."
He wanted to form a protest but couldn't, so he sent a furious wave of WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU, I DON'T WANT TO FUCK HIM IN THE ASS, WHAT ARE YOU SMOKING and a barrage of some other totally nonsensical thoughts and images her way.
Sam looked like he was having trouble speaking too, couldn't blame him, and Ruby gnawed on her fry some more. "He thinks about you," she confided happily, "about how big you must be, and who can blame him, really," and she stopped when Sam grabbed her wrists and shoved her back, hard, against where the diner's wall and window met at their booth.
"Shut the fuck up," he said, low, so low it hardly carried. He shook her so hard her head rattled around and hit the glass. She just kept smiling. "If I see you again," and he stopped there. Dean numbly figured he must have thought something at her, or maybe he was making some sort of menacing face he couldn't see. He let go of her wrists and got out of the booth, moving fast, radiating fury.
Ruby turned back to her fries, completely unfazed. Sam brushed past him out the door.
--
They didn't speak. Sam drove. Dean felt a little like he'd gone a few days without sleeping, detached and surreal, but his head practically boiled with the need to explain, or the need to laugh everything off. He knew Sam was anything but stupid, he would have noticed Dean's less than confused reaction to Ruby's taunting, so laughing it off wouldn't work, but he didn't know how to broach the I don't want to fuck you, bro, I just like to think about you doing it with chicks, a very distinct difference there conversation. He stayed silent and stared, unseeing, at the dashboard.
Sam drove past the exit for their motel, and Dean didn't say anything. Sam kept forgetting, or not bothering, to change gears until the Impala was practically growling, and Dean didn't say anything. Finally, they were headed out past city limits, and Dean whetted his lips, tentative.
"I don't want to. Y'know."
"Yeah." Sam's fingers clenched over the steering wheel as he adjusted his grip. "Demons lie, right."
"Right."
They were silent again. It wasn't exactly uncomfortable, but it was loaded, and Dean felt kind of sick over it. He wished he would have shot her, or that she would have the guts to show her face again so Sam would do whatever it was he'd threatened. He wanted her dead, gone, finished with the meddling and the lies and whatever the fuck she'd been doing to Sam's head. And then he wanted her revived so he could do it all over again for her fucking peering into his head and doing whatever crazy shit she wanted with it. Never mind that it was a lie, he didn't want to fuck Sam, the idea of it made him queasier than before and gave him a nearly physical recoil, an intrinsic no.
Demons lie. They'd gotten that all nice and squared. Didn't explain why Sam was still sitting there, pissed, and why Dean was still struck awkward and silent because of it. In the passenger's seat no less, Jesus.
"She showed me this, I don't know, mirage of shit, all these flashes of me fucking random chicks, and Angelina Jolie, and she showed me you jerking off, and she kept calling me Sammy." Sam started laughing in his huffy, humorless way. "She said, Sammy, look how much your brother loves you."
Dean really thought he might puke.
"Look how much your brother wants you, Sammy, what he'd do for you, how much he loves you--"
"Fuck, Sam." He curled around himself, nauseous and terrified and grossed the fuck out. "Pull the car over, I'm gonna--"
Sam's voice rose over him. "And you just stood there, like she was reading your diary or something."
Dean just shook his head. No amount of assuring his brother he didn't want to fuck him. He wasn't going to open his mouth and say that, make things that much worse. "It's nothing, Sam. It's nothing."
"Selling your soul for me," Sam hissed, suddenly violent, jerking the car into the right lane and then back out to a small cacophony of horns. "Jesus."
"Fuck--no, don't you make it that," Dean growled. He nearly wrenched his back turning to face Sam and felt the illogical urge to slap him across his face.
Sam cut across three lanes of traffic and took the nearest exit, Dean bracing himself with his hand against the dash. Neither of them bothered to look if any cars collided in the wake of Sam's crazy driving. He pulled into a Safeway and parked all cockeyed, taking up two spots at the back of the lot.
He couldn't really believe this was happening. Dean could hear the engine's ticking cool-down and Sam's forcibly controlled breathing and it was unreasonably loud, claustrophobic. He rubbed a hand at his mouth, fitful. He wanted to get out of the car and punch the sick rage out of him. He wanted something to kill but the only thing handy was Sam. He wanted to turn the car around and find Ruby and spend the next few days beating the shit out of her and making her scream apologizes at Sam. Like that'd erase the damage done.
"So, what, you going to lie and tell me it was something else?"
Dean hauled off and punched him. It just sort of happened. His knuckles stung and felt like he'd spent too long cracking them, not the usual pain he remembered from throwing punches. Sam's cheek had split from Dean's ring and it bled in a tidy trickle down to his jaw. He didn't even look surprised, only more pissed off.
"Fuck you, that's disgusting."
Sam started laughing again, tinged with an edge of hysteria. He swiped his fingers over the cut and wiped them off on his jeans. "Yeah, it is."
"It's just," he said through gritted teeth, eyes closed, the words forcing themselves through his mouth because there was nothing he'd want to talk about less, "some-- thing, I don't know, I just do it."
"Think about me fucking people?" Sam's voice rose shrilly in indignation, and it would have been funny any other time. Dean belatedly figured out that he hadn't actually assumed Dean wanted to do him, which was only minutely reassuring in the scheme of things.
"No! Man. I don't know. Not just you. Can we not talk about this."
"Not just me," Sam echoed, dubious. "Like random people on the street?" Dean didn't answer. He slammed his head back against the seat and saw spots behind his eyelids. "What, like dad?"
His eyes popped open and his whole body jerked in a shudder. "Dude, don't make me hurl."
"I take that as a no," he muttered. The hysterical tone was gone from his voice, and he sounded like he was back in his rational Sam mode, which meant he was going to talk it out until both of them were dead or until he was satisfied, whichever came first. Well. Technically, he'd be first. Six months and four days. "Dean, dude, help me out here, because I'm not getting this."
How the fuck complicated could it be. Dean failed to see why Sam had to get it, and of course Sam wasn't going to anyway, because Sam was Sam, the guy who never hit on girls and only got laid once every few freaking years and had things end badly.
Sam started talking again, even more reasonable and rational and fucking calm. "Are you into voyeurism?"
Dean snorted. "Can you see me peeking into women's bedroom's and beating off in the bushes? Fuck no."
"I meant do you like to watch."
That was pretty evident. "Why are we talking about this, Sam? Really. Ruby threw that shit at you to fuck with your head, she blew it all up to fuck with you, or us, and I don't want to sit around here fucking talking about it and making it worse. It's what she wants." Sam seemed to have no problem doing what Ruby wanted, he thought Dean was stupid or blind, and he wanted that bitch dead before she could talk him into doing something truly fucked up in the name of saving Dean's ass.
Sam's voice turned wry. "Yeah, I noticed that. Didn't think she'd try and sabotage me trying to-- yeah."
"Didn't think. She's a fucking demon, Sam, what I've been telling you all along." Didn't want to save him, didn't want to help Sam, just wanted Sam beholden so she could milk it for what it's worth, see how far she could put the screws to Sam. Maybe it was her idea of entertainment. All Sam's talk about using her, so far gone at the idea of saving him he couldn't see it was the other way around. Sometimes he was such a dumbass.
"Look, it's just something I do, I don't know why it's you sometimes. Maybe, maybe I'm too invested in getting you laid so you can blow off some steam. It isn't a big deal."
"Or maybe it's a side effect of spending so much goddamn time together."
Dean actually laughed. He didn't know he had it in him, didn't know why it was funny. He was still freaked, still annoyed at Sam's rational, everything-is-fine tone, how he got weirdly superior and it felt like he was sitting in some shrink's office. But the laugh, that was something, at least. "Yeah, maybe."
Sam paused. Dean could feel his eyes on him, considering. At least he wasn't pissed. Or looking to return that punch. "You're not talking about this, are you."
"Nope."
Sam's silence was a little long-suffering and irritated, not that Dean could blame him. He stared up at the ceiling and didn't protest when Sam started up the car. He didn't think he could drive right then anyway. He felt the car lurch into reverse and roll along the asphalt, Sam's driving steady and controlled. Back to normal.
Right.
--- Continue on to the second half.
Title: Dirty Up Your Conscience
Author: Gin (backinblack)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Sam (plus Sam/OFC, Dean/OFC, and Dean/Sam/OFC).
Summary: Demons lie, except for when they tell the truth.
Notes: Written for lazy_daze for the spn_holidays challenge. She asked for: 4 - Wincest; Dean REALLY getting turned on by thinking about Sam having sex with girls; featuring detailed jerk-off sessions while fantasising and/or voyeurism (so het is obviously okay), and preferably leading to actual Wincest. Pluses include top!Sam, hints of dom!Sam. Hope I fulfilled at least part of what you were looking for. You had some fab prompts, and I waffled forever trying to choose one! Thanks to back_in_black for the mid-fic advice and nitpicking, to cormallen for the fab mid-fic beta, and finally thanks to unjealous for infecting me with her genius and pretty much co-writing sections of the fic.
--
Dean wasn't actually drunk, he just had a couple shots of Jim Beam at the bar, but when Sam showed up all pissy, bitching about being left alone on laundry duty, Dean didn't want to hear it. Sam knew better than to lecture when Dean was drunk; it only made him laugh or get belligerent, and apparently Sam found both reactions too obnoxious to deal with. Slurring a little and laughing at everything was a small price to pay to fend off Sam's put-upon speeches.
He grabbed Sam's sleeve and tried to pull him down into the bar stool next to him, but Sam shook him off. "Come on, Dean, we need to get up early."
Dean gestured to the girl sitting to his left, her long legs crossed under the bar counter. "I'm in the middle of a conversation, Sam."
Sam laughed, not really amused, and shifted his weight. The girl, Marie, was giving Sam the eye, and as usual Sam made every effort not to acknowledge her. "Yeah, right, I'm sure it's been scintillating--" asshole! "--but I think it's time to go home." Go home, go to a motel. Go home to mismatched socks and damp denim jeans that smelled like sulfur no matter how many times you washed them, all folded and lined up on Dean's bed, compliments of Sam's anal retentiveness.
Dean switched on a blinding grin and swiveled in his seat, turning to face Marie, who smiled and sipped on her fourth martini. Her hair fell in a riot of blonde waves over her shoulders and she had a freckle or a beauty mark above her lip. She looked kinda like Jessica, or Dean's admittedly faded and brief memory of her. "Do you wanna come home with us tonight?"
He didn't mean it, didn't believe in it any more than he believed in his own level of drunkenness. He said it to piss Sam off and it worked. He heard Sam's surprised hitch of breath behind him, and a muffled "Jesus Christ." Marie gave Sam the eye again, and Dean could about picture Sam's awkward, embarrassed smile.
Marie looked like she was considering it, maybe about to say yes, and that shit usually never worked, but he guessed there was a first time for anything. She opened her pretty, lipstick-red mouth to answer, but Sam cut in.
"Sorry about my brother, he gets real friendly when he's." Sam stuttered over a nice way to say shitfaced. "Drunk."
Sam hauled him up off the stool by the back of his coat, like some mother cat with her kitten, and Dean swallowed irritation to stumble and stagger his way under the curve of Sam's arm around his shoulders. Fuck him. Cockblocking bastard.
Leaning most of his weight up against Sam, he made sure to give everyone in the bar a lengthy goodbye at the doors. Once Sam managed to drag him out, he tripped a few times in the parking lot for good measure. Sam dumped him into the passenger seat and fastened the seatbelt around him, as Dean stared up at the ceiling, letting his head loll against the seat, fighting back a smirk.
"What a pain in the ass you are," Dean mumbled, really playing it up. "Always bitching and sulking. Since you were nine, a pain in my ass."
"Pain in my ass since I was born," Sam retorted, weary, like he didn't think Dean could hear him. It was that quiet little aside, the fact that Sam believed it, that ticked him off. He spent the rest of the ride back to the Motel 6 silently listing all the reasons Sam was an ass.
--
Dean was stretched out on the bed, listening to the clanging pipes and hiss of the shower running. He was tired, a little, and still irked at Sam to the point of listlessness, but his boots were laced too tight and he hated sleeping in jeans. At least Sam'd wrestled the coat off of him before he wandered off to shower. Dean sat himself up long enough to untie the laces and kick the boots off, landing with two soft clunks onto the floor, and wriggled out of his jeans. He hit the pillow with an oof and dragged the comforter up over his legs.
It was only like 10, or maybe 11, too early by far. Sam dragged him out of the bar for no real reason. He was tired enough for the hour, but he knew he couldn't sleep. You would think Sam would cherish the time they had to themselves, but no; if Dean went to shoot pool or get laid, Sam got snitty and hunted him down, chewed him out. And tonight, that blonde, Marie, she had been pretty for a barfly, and Dean had a real chance. Ten more minutes alone with her, and he would have been back at her place. Hell, maybe even in the bathroom, the brand new condoms in his wallet put to good use. Shit, though, she looked like she would have gone for Sam, and she was Sam's type, all that hair and how tall she was.
He had a thought that maybe Sam didn't want to go for his type, not after Jessica. Maybe it was over for him and leggy blondes. If so, what a sad state, a huge demographic of potential pussy he was counting out. Not that Sam ever had anything but potential pussy these days. Some chick could throw herself onto his cock and he'd politely excuse himself.
Dean glanced at the clock, gauging how much longer Sam would be in the shower. There was a press of urgency -- a niggling need to get off -- curling in his stomach, tensing the muscles there and making his breath come heavier. What'd it been, a day? Two? No, that morning, during his last shower, where he usually did it because it was safer. What Sam was probably doing right now. Dean's fingers slipped under the waistband of his shorts, lamenting the state of Sam's carpal tunnel from all that jerking off he must be doing.
He thought about Marie, about her legs around his hips, about what she'd let him do to her. One knuckle sliding over her clit to get her wet, inching her hips forward, noises in the back of her throat, the way he liked them. She looked like a boring fuck, now that he thought about it. Didn't say much, didn't flirt much, just slid closer to him and smiled and licked her lips. Her lips. His fingers twisted on an upstroke, playing with the slit, picturing her lips sucking tiny kisses against the tip there, then sliding down. Her lipstick'd smear off on it and her lips wouldn't be as red, shiny from her spit, pearly wet with his precome. Fuck, that was good. His hips arched off the bed and he sped up, still turned to face the clock, eyes unseeing of the blurry neon numbers on its face.
She would have said yes. She looked like she was going to back at the bar, and Dean knew under her mannequin exterior there was a little spice waiting to come out. She would have sat shotgun while Sam waited, nervous and pissed off and horny, in the back. Never mind that Sam thought he was drunk and wouldn't let him drive the Impala, it still would have worked out this way. He wouldn't have turned the radio on so he could hear her carefully controlled breathing, sitting there wet already, thinking about Dean's tongue on her clit and if Sam's dick matched the rest of him.
Sam, Sam would try and disappear, hem and haw the whole way, probably stuttering excuses while she took off her shirt and then stood there in her skirt and her bra two sizes too small, tits pushed up, spilling out. Dean'd slide behind her and nudge her up on the bed, hands working at the clasp, cupping her tits, whispering shit in her ear. Saying, "how you wanna do this? You want us both at once?" And she'd make a noise, not quite a moan, and just lean into him, nod.
And then Sam would give in. Somewhere around there. Maybe when Dean started fingering her and Sam could see how wet she was, pink and shaved and tight around his finger. Sam would take off his shirt with awkward, stiff fingers and she'd get even wetter, clenching around him, because she wanted Sam so bad, wanted to see if the rest of him looked as good.
Sam would eat her out, his tongue pointed and lapping, his hair pushed out of his eyes so he could see what he was doing. She'd be flat on the bed by then, legs spread and skirt off, or maybe almost off, dangling on an ankle. The room would be filled with the sounds of her breathing and soft gasps, the wet sounds of Sam, getting sloppier as it went on. She'd be two seconds from coming, getting into it, not nearly as quiet, maybe pushing at his head with fitful hands, tugging his hair. He'd move away from between her thighs, wipe off his mouth, look for his jeans and fumble for the condom. His cock all red, so fucking hard, sticky, condom -- extra large, she was right, it matched the rest of him -- going on. He'd angle her hips and push in, and then she'd groan, probably hadn't taken a dick like that in a while, or ever. "Fuck," she'd whine, Sam pumping his hips, balls right up against her ass, and Dean shot all over himself.
He took a few moments to breathe, blinking, his hands resting uselessly against his chest. His come was cooling quickly, but he didn't have the energy to get up. He didn't have the quickest recovery time with orgasms.
"It smells like spunk in here."
Dean started, or more like his thoughts screeched to a halt in surprise, but his body was still too overloaded to actually react.
Sam tossed his wet towel onto the floor. He was already dressed in his boxers and t-shirt, shoulders still damp and causing the material to stick. His expression was all pinched and it was vaguely amusing, or would have been if Dean's heart wasn't pounding. Sam sat down on the bed, tucking one leg under him, and reached for the remote. He channel-surfed for a moment before stopping on some World's Most Extreme Car Chases or whatever. "Dude, I know you're not that drunk, you don't fool me."
Dean just lay there for a moment, painfully aware of his sticky shorts. "I need to piss." He rolled out of bed, feeling Sam's eyes on his back until he closed the bathroom door behind him.
--
Starbucks wasn't Dean's choice for pickup spots, but he had to admit it hadn't been all that bad. In cities like Chicago, Sacramento or Denver, a lot of the customers were barely-legal yuppie chicks who took one look at his jacket and irritated expression and, not incorrectly, thought bad boy. Most yuppie chicks were prudes, leering at him like he was the whipped cream on their Venti froufy caramel whatevers, but if he went up with any intent to one of them, they clammed up, got bitchy, even. But a few of them were into it, almost easy, writing their numbers on stray napkins and inviting him out for drinks later. All things considered, it wasn't too hard to score at a Starbucks.
Today, though, the barista, who was pretty hot and had a tongue ring, stared at him blankly. He smiled and gave her a big tip, encouragement, and she gave him a look that read like he'd asked her how much for an hour, sweetheart? He watched her make Sam's latte and his black with mild suspicion, but she was too visible to be able to spit in it. She slammed the order down on the counter without a word and Dean took it, scowling, back to the table.
Sam was dicking around with the place's wireless, in it for the long haul for some substantiated local lore on a headless horseman, no lie. He thanked Dean absently for his coffee, went on staring at the screen and didn't offer any news on what he'd found. Dean shook out the newspaper and hunted for a pen, starting what was probably the millionth Sudoku puzzle he'd done over the last few years. He was fitting in a nine and double checking against the row beneath it when Sam spoke.
"Eugh, Dean, I told you I wanted a vanilla latte, how is that difficult to remember?"
"Don't blame me, man, that chick was on the rag or something."
"I never can figure out why you piss people off who handle your food." He shut his laptop and stood up with an irritated sigh.
Dean went back to his Sudoku and absently kept an ear on Sam, his 'excuse me Miss'es and downright creepy way of manipulating people into doing what he wanted. Dean never had gotten that down; it probably had something to do with Sam's stupid hair. The barista was all apologies and he heard her laugh at something Sam said. A few minutes later, Sam came back, holding his brand new vanilla latte and a lone napkin, looking perplexed.
"I don't get it. I tip her, she fucks up our order. You complain, and she gives you her number."
"I was being polite, Dean." He stared at the napkin for a minute but his monklike nature reasserted itself and he went back to the laptop.
Dean took a sip of his coffee, considering. "You see her tongue ring?" Sam didn't answer, hardly bothered to flick an unimpressed glance over the top of the screen. "Always thought those things were overrated, but there was this chick in Georgia." Sam squinted and slid further down in his chair, his patented 'I'm-not-listening' bullshit. "Man, that was intense." Sam went peck-peck-peck, undeterred, and Dean stifled the urge to laugh. "She worked me like a pro, spent like ten minutes just flicking her tongue over my--"
"Dean!" Sam's hands flew up in mock surrender. "In what universe do you think I want to hear about this?"
Dean chuckled over the rim of his cup. "You should try it, all I'm saying."
"Yeah, thanks for the advice," Sam said, sarcastic ass.
He was about done with his coffee, and Sam looked like he was onto something, when the barista came by. She was holding a small card between her manicured fingers. Dean gave her a weak smile, but she turned her back on him and leaned over -- leaned over, one arm braced on the cafe table, probably giving Sam a great view -- and spoke directly to Sam. "Sir, I just wanted to apologize again for your order," she said.
Sam huffed an anxious laugh, squirming in his seat. "Oh, oh, it's no big deal."
"I wanted to give you this for your trouble, and thank you again for being so understanding." She handed the card to Sam, who looked down at it intently. "It's a voucher for a free coffee, just, you know. Hopefully we'll get that order right," and she gave this tinkling laugh that she'd probably spent some time rehearsing in the past.
By the time she walked away, Dean was staring at Sam in abject fascination. Sam noticed. "What?"
"You're so smooth, bro, I'm impressed."
"Shut up."
"No, really, it was total James Bond." Sam flipped him off, and Dean cracked up. Sam shook his head and started typing again. God knew how he landed chicks like that. Maybe they went for the geeky, potentially a virgin vibe. No accounting for taste. She was practically giving him a lapdance and he sat there like she was trying to sell him life insurance.
If it'd been Dean -- and let's not forget it had been Dean, many times over, but for whatever reason this girl disliked him on sight -- he would have flirted back to the point of indecency, then slunk off to the restroom and waited for her. She would have been there, practically gagging for it, going straight to her knees in her work pants and unbuttoning his jeans with a smile. And that tongue ring, glinting, working over his cock, flicking the head until he was grunting and driving his hips up.
God, what if Sam got up to use the john and she took it as a signal? Maybe she'd corner him actually about to take a fucking leak, him stuttering and freaking out, her not giving a damn, dropping to her knees. She'd just want him to fuck her mouth, and he'd get into it the more he saw her taking it, slamming it so deep he'd choke her. She'd pull off to breathe and go right back, Sam clenching his teeth and telling her to just take it, that's right, just choke on his dick, his pants not even all of the way down so the zipper's teeth scraped at her face. She'd stop when he got close and tell him he could shoot on her face, and Sam would lose it, probably get it in her hair. Shit, Sam didn't know what he was missing.
"You awake?" Dean blinked and Sam studied him expectantly.
"What?"
"You were off in your own little world there."
"Just thinkin' about that tongue ring," he said, all smart ass, and Sam rolled his eyes. "Ready to go?"
"Yeah, I think I found everything I'm going to, and I want to get out of here before she offers me a complimentary pastry."
--
Their waitress was forty if she was a day, but she was a good forty, and Dean didn't say no to the free sodas and round of fries. He wouldn't say no to the number she might scribble onto the bill, either. Sam was so used to Dean's usual treatment by diner staff that he didn't even look up from his notes, scribbling away on ritual animal sacrifice while Dean tried to distract him by throwing fries.
Sam went to go to the bathroom, and Dean was halfway into a pretty fantastic burger so he hardly registered Sam getting up, but then the cloying smell of Ruby's perfume hit him in the face. She wasn't even near him yet, but he could smell the sick bitch. He set his burger down and covertly felt for his gun underneath the table; by the time she slid into the booth, in Sam's place, he'd lost his appetite and gained one hell of a bad attitude.
"Hey, Dean-o." As if his teeth weren't already set on edge. She poked Sam's food around his plate -- and the idea of her touching anything that went near Sam, her sulfur and evil and floral perfume poisoning him, as irrational as he knew it was -- it made him want to grab her by the hair and slam her face into the chipped table.
"How stupid can you be, showing up here," he growled.
"Relax, I'm just here to see Sam. No need to take it personally."
"Oh, it's definitely personal," he said, while she busied herself with picking the ketchup-sodden lettuce off of Sam's burger.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Sam's voice boomed pretty impressively over their heads. Dean glanced up and Sam, for once not slouching, looked like one seriously pissed off giant. He got in the booth next to Ruby when he realized his Conan the Barbarian impression wasn't going to fly in the middle of a diner.
Ruby gestured at Dean. "I'm having a heart-to-heart with your brother. I'm starting to see why you care about him so very much."
"You've got some kinda nerve," Dean started, but Sam shot him a look that very clearly read 'let me handle this.' Because Sam had so much control over Ruby.
"Look at you two," she simpered, "it's almost like watching an old married couple."
Sam's eyes narrowed and he looked momentarily furious, like he was going to backhand her, but then his face melted into cool and collected. She turned her sunny smile back at him, knowing, some sort of blonde Cheshire cat. And yeah, it made him queasy, but Dean could totally see that turning into something else a little more meaningful, her hair splayed forward, all over her arms, as Sam fucked her doggy style. Maybe fucking a way to save Dean out of her. He had a hot flash of Sam's come dripping out of her and his stomach clenched.
"Dude," Ruby said, looking at him with a mix of amusement and what must have been feigned disgust. She seemed impressed.
"What?" he shot back, but he didn't have to think about it much. Demon, tendency to fuck with people's heads, and for those personal touches they had to get the information from somewhere. She smiled wider, confirming his suspicions, and her eyes twinkled with it, fanned by long lashes, and it could be any other thing she could be laughing at, her boyfriend or some dumb joke. Dean had a moment of shame when he remembered that this was some poor girl's body he was picturing, someone's daughter, a kid.
"What?" Sam said, looking between the two of them.
"So do you think of all the girls that way or am I just special?" She leaned toward him, taking on a sultry little tone that the tiny, probably teenaged body didn't quite carry off. Goddamn demon bitch.
"Shut up," he started in, heated, his fingers gripping the butt of his gun under the table, knowing he wasn't stupid enough to shoot her in the middle of the frigging diner, but also knowing she was probably going somewhere he really didn't like.
She laughed and idly picked at a French fry on his plate, twirling it between her manicured fingers. "I'm really going to draw this one out, you know," she informed him, biting the tip of the fry with particular relish.
"What the hell is going on?" Sam butted in again, in his usual way getting all hot and bothered because they weren't letting him in on whatever it was he thought he was being left out of.
Dean didn't answer, just started to slide from the booth, tempted to drag Sam along, away from Ruby, but Sam would never come without a fight or an explanation. He couldn't deal with either. Sam tried to grab him but he was already halfway to the door when Ruby called out to him, "You're making my week with this one, Dean-o. I'm going to masturbate to Sam's face after I tell him."
Everyone in the diner was looking at them, the low buzz of chatter and forks against cheap plates silenced. Dean turned around, Sam tense and ready to explode in the booth, but Ruby likely wouldn't let him leave, would drag him back with her deceptively small frame. Her teeth gleamed white even from Dean's place at the door.
He saw himself, in some alternate turn of events, pulling a gun on her, aiming smack at the middle of her forehead, a kill shot on any normal human or even creature, if he'd had the right ammo. Regular bullets in his gun, which wouldn't do anything except give her a pretty impressive hole that she'd have a time explaining, and put some more shit on his rap sheet. Like he cared. He wanted the satisfaction of shooting her in the fucking head. Watching her jerk as it slammed in. His hand actually reached for it he was so furious, and he had to stop himself from making what would be a catastrophic mistake.
"Sammy," she said, slow and casual, preening under the attention of their horror and all the unfortunate souls who just wanted some coffee and lunch and got a whole lot more, "your brother wants to fuck you in the ass."
"What the hell?" Dean blurted, so shocked it came out without thought.
Ruby cackled. "Yeah, I was right, his face is pretty much priceless."
He wanted to form a protest but couldn't, so he sent a furious wave of WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU, I DON'T WANT TO FUCK HIM IN THE ASS, WHAT ARE YOU SMOKING and a barrage of some other totally nonsensical thoughts and images her way.
Sam looked like he was having trouble speaking too, couldn't blame him, and Ruby gnawed on her fry some more. "He thinks about you," she confided happily, "about how big you must be, and who can blame him, really," and she stopped when Sam grabbed her wrists and shoved her back, hard, against where the diner's wall and window met at their booth.
"Shut the fuck up," he said, low, so low it hardly carried. He shook her so hard her head rattled around and hit the glass. She just kept smiling. "If I see you again," and he stopped there. Dean numbly figured he must have thought something at her, or maybe he was making some sort of menacing face he couldn't see. He let go of her wrists and got out of the booth, moving fast, radiating fury.
Ruby turned back to her fries, completely unfazed. Sam brushed past him out the door.
--
They didn't speak. Sam drove. Dean felt a little like he'd gone a few days without sleeping, detached and surreal, but his head practically boiled with the need to explain, or the need to laugh everything off. He knew Sam was anything but stupid, he would have noticed Dean's less than confused reaction to Ruby's taunting, so laughing it off wouldn't work, but he didn't know how to broach the I don't want to fuck you, bro, I just like to think about you doing it with chicks, a very distinct difference there conversation. He stayed silent and stared, unseeing, at the dashboard.
Sam drove past the exit for their motel, and Dean didn't say anything. Sam kept forgetting, or not bothering, to change gears until the Impala was practically growling, and Dean didn't say anything. Finally, they were headed out past city limits, and Dean whetted his lips, tentative.
"I don't want to. Y'know."
"Yeah." Sam's fingers clenched over the steering wheel as he adjusted his grip. "Demons lie, right."
"Right."
They were silent again. It wasn't exactly uncomfortable, but it was loaded, and Dean felt kind of sick over it. He wished he would have shot her, or that she would have the guts to show her face again so Sam would do whatever it was he'd threatened. He wanted her dead, gone, finished with the meddling and the lies and whatever the fuck she'd been doing to Sam's head. And then he wanted her revived so he could do it all over again for her fucking peering into his head and doing whatever crazy shit she wanted with it. Never mind that it was a lie, he didn't want to fuck Sam, the idea of it made him queasier than before and gave him a nearly physical recoil, an intrinsic no.
Demons lie. They'd gotten that all nice and squared. Didn't explain why Sam was still sitting there, pissed, and why Dean was still struck awkward and silent because of it. In the passenger's seat no less, Jesus.
"She showed me this, I don't know, mirage of shit, all these flashes of me fucking random chicks, and Angelina Jolie, and she showed me you jerking off, and she kept calling me Sammy." Sam started laughing in his huffy, humorless way. "She said, Sammy, look how much your brother loves you."
Dean really thought he might puke.
"Look how much your brother wants you, Sammy, what he'd do for you, how much he loves you--"
"Fuck, Sam." He curled around himself, nauseous and terrified and grossed the fuck out. "Pull the car over, I'm gonna--"
Sam's voice rose over him. "And you just stood there, like she was reading your diary or something."
Dean just shook his head. No amount of assuring his brother he didn't want to fuck him. He wasn't going to open his mouth and say that, make things that much worse. "It's nothing, Sam. It's nothing."
"Selling your soul for me," Sam hissed, suddenly violent, jerking the car into the right lane and then back out to a small cacophony of horns. "Jesus."
"Fuck--no, don't you make it that," Dean growled. He nearly wrenched his back turning to face Sam and felt the illogical urge to slap him across his face.
Sam cut across three lanes of traffic and took the nearest exit, Dean bracing himself with his hand against the dash. Neither of them bothered to look if any cars collided in the wake of Sam's crazy driving. He pulled into a Safeway and parked all cockeyed, taking up two spots at the back of the lot.
He couldn't really believe this was happening. Dean could hear the engine's ticking cool-down and Sam's forcibly controlled breathing and it was unreasonably loud, claustrophobic. He rubbed a hand at his mouth, fitful. He wanted to get out of the car and punch the sick rage out of him. He wanted something to kill but the only thing handy was Sam. He wanted to turn the car around and find Ruby and spend the next few days beating the shit out of her and making her scream apologizes at Sam. Like that'd erase the damage done.
"So, what, you going to lie and tell me it was something else?"
Dean hauled off and punched him. It just sort of happened. His knuckles stung and felt like he'd spent too long cracking them, not the usual pain he remembered from throwing punches. Sam's cheek had split from Dean's ring and it bled in a tidy trickle down to his jaw. He didn't even look surprised, only more pissed off.
"Fuck you, that's disgusting."
Sam started laughing again, tinged with an edge of hysteria. He swiped his fingers over the cut and wiped them off on his jeans. "Yeah, it is."
"It's just," he said through gritted teeth, eyes closed, the words forcing themselves through his mouth because there was nothing he'd want to talk about less, "some-- thing, I don't know, I just do it."
"Think about me fucking people?" Sam's voice rose shrilly in indignation, and it would have been funny any other time. Dean belatedly figured out that he hadn't actually assumed Dean wanted to do him, which was only minutely reassuring in the scheme of things.
"No! Man. I don't know. Not just you. Can we not talk about this."
"Not just me," Sam echoed, dubious. "Like random people on the street?" Dean didn't answer. He slammed his head back against the seat and saw spots behind his eyelids. "What, like dad?"
His eyes popped open and his whole body jerked in a shudder. "Dude, don't make me hurl."
"I take that as a no," he muttered. The hysterical tone was gone from his voice, and he sounded like he was back in his rational Sam mode, which meant he was going to talk it out until both of them were dead or until he was satisfied, whichever came first. Well. Technically, he'd be first. Six months and four days. "Dean, dude, help me out here, because I'm not getting this."
How the fuck complicated could it be. Dean failed to see why Sam had to get it, and of course Sam wasn't going to anyway, because Sam was Sam, the guy who never hit on girls and only got laid once every few freaking years and had things end badly.
Sam started talking again, even more reasonable and rational and fucking calm. "Are you into voyeurism?"
Dean snorted. "Can you see me peeking into women's bedroom's and beating off in the bushes? Fuck no."
"I meant do you like to watch."
That was pretty evident. "Why are we talking about this, Sam? Really. Ruby threw that shit at you to fuck with your head, she blew it all up to fuck with you, or us, and I don't want to sit around here fucking talking about it and making it worse. It's what she wants." Sam seemed to have no problem doing what Ruby wanted, he thought Dean was stupid or blind, and he wanted that bitch dead before she could talk him into doing something truly fucked up in the name of saving Dean's ass.
Sam's voice turned wry. "Yeah, I noticed that. Didn't think she'd try and sabotage me trying to-- yeah."
"Didn't think. She's a fucking demon, Sam, what I've been telling you all along." Didn't want to save him, didn't want to help Sam, just wanted Sam beholden so she could milk it for what it's worth, see how far she could put the screws to Sam. Maybe it was her idea of entertainment. All Sam's talk about using her, so far gone at the idea of saving him he couldn't see it was the other way around. Sometimes he was such a dumbass.
"Look, it's just something I do, I don't know why it's you sometimes. Maybe, maybe I'm too invested in getting you laid so you can blow off some steam. It isn't a big deal."
"Or maybe it's a side effect of spending so much goddamn time together."
Dean actually laughed. He didn't know he had it in him, didn't know why it was funny. He was still freaked, still annoyed at Sam's rational, everything-is-fine tone, how he got weirdly superior and it felt like he was sitting in some shrink's office. But the laugh, that was something, at least. "Yeah, maybe."
Sam paused. Dean could feel his eyes on him, considering. At least he wasn't pissed. Or looking to return that punch. "You're not talking about this, are you."
"Nope."
Sam's silence was a little long-suffering and irritated, not that Dean could blame him. He stared up at the ceiling and didn't protest when Sam started up the car. He didn't think he could drive right then anyway. He felt the car lurch into reverse and roll along the asphalt, Sam's driving steady and controlled. Back to normal.
Right.
--- Continue on to the second half.